


I lost somebody today

by handlewithkara



Category: Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alien Mythology/Religion, Angst, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, References to Child Death, Singing, Tears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-22 07:36:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12476580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/handlewithkara/pseuds/handlewithkara
Summary: A standard superhero mission doesn't go as planned. Kara doesn't take it well. At all.





	1. Chapter 1

Kara is shaking and her clothes are soaked all the way through. She could have flown the way from Alex apartment, but this time she _wanted_ to walk. She wanted to feel the pavement below her feet. For the rain to hit her face. To walk past all the people who don‘t know her, not like this, not without her suit, her cape, her emblem. Even if it means sucking in her breath, dipping and weaving so she doesn‘t break any bones when she walks into them.

She doesn’t feel the cold. Not physically. Not even Antarctica can make the tiny hairs on her arms stand up. Kara remembers cold and heat, from back home, from those times when she lost her powers. Here on earth, most of the time, the only time she feels temperature when it comes from inside of herself, red hot burning anger searing from her belly, or the icy, clammy touch of fear. Right now she wants to feel the cold from the outside, wants it to match her inside, no matter how futile this need might be.

Her feet carry her forward, she walks around aimlessly, but in the end, like a moth to a flame, despite knowing how much it will hurt, she’s drawn home.

Now she’s standing in front of her own door like a fool, her hair all wet, a small puddle forming in the hallway, as she’s unable to bring herself to just go inside. How long has it been? 2 minutes? 5? Suddenly there’s a shuffling behind that door and Kara freezes, her gut instinct screaming for her to run, but her soles stay rooted to the floor.

The door swings open and it’s like everything her apartment represents, the emotional warmth, the happy memories, the smells, the soft lights torrent out and wash over her. And of course _him_. Kara is sure she didn’t make a sound, but he must have heard or sensed her anyway and now he’s standing in the doorway, filling it, looking at her.

_Mon-El_

Boyfriend.

Daxamite.

Idiot.

Rock. _Her_ rock.

Standing there, just out of reach. She hugs herself tighter, wondering what she must look like to him, disheveled, wet like a drowned rat. He is owed an explanation. It’s something she can’t escape.

“I lost somebody today,”

The words feel like a damnation, all raspy against her tongue. “Look, it’s no big deal. Alex has already given me the speech. I know it’s not my fault. I can’t save everybody. Has she called you yet?” Kara knows that she’s babbling and shaking and probably not being very convincing. She hates the way her voice goes higher and ends up in a little squeak and tears bursts from her eyes. She clings to herself as if she is afraid that she’ll spill apart.

Familiar hands extend towards her. Wordlessly Mon-El pulls her into his arms, into the apartment, closes the door behind her. Kara collides with his chest and it’s almost too much. Too much warmth, too much safety, too much comfort. She looks up to him, blinking, her eyes swimming with tears.

“Look, I know. I _know_. I gotta let it go. It was bound to happen. I could have happened to anybody. Clark will call me later. It’s no big deal, it’s no big deal,” she repeats, each word feeling like a hiccup from deep below. Her eyes are wide. She is crying openly now. All she wants is bury her face in his shirt and close her eyes, but she can’t. Every time her lids close there is this girl again, tight, bouncing black curls with pink ribbons and then that ugly _crack_ as the surprisingly fleshly _thud_ as car metal hits human flesh.

Suddenly the ground disappears below Kara’s feet as Mon-El sweeps her up in his arms. Her arms clasp around his neck instinctively. Her heart begins to race. “You shouldn’t do this,” she whispers as he carries her over to her bathroom. “I’m getting your clothes all wet.” She clings tighter. She wants to scream, yell at him, blast him out of her apartment, wants to make him leave. Because she doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve a loving family, she doesn’t deserve a supportive boyfriend taking care of her, not when there are two people, somewhere out there who just lost their little girl.

Because of her.

***

 

Her bathroom feels glaring and too light. It‘s littered with all the cutesy little accessories, the multi colored soaps, the fluffy towels, the waterproof stickers on the wall (she has handpicked every single one). Mon-El stands her down on the oval blue carpet. It swallows up her feet, its many raised piles like the arms of tiny creatures reaching for her toes.

“Come on, you don’t need to do that,” Kara whines.

Mon-El ignores her. He reaches behind her, turning on the faucet. Then his hands are on her shirt, pulling it over her head, reaching behind her back and unhooking her bra with well practiced ease. Kara doesn’t stop him, but stubbornly refuses to help. Instead she gnaws on her lip. Her skinny jeans are fastened with a row of buttons, instead of a zipper and he pops them open, one by one, before pulling her pants down her hips, together with her panties.

“Sit,” he says simply, pushing her down on the rim of the bathtub with one hand on her shoulder.

Kara goes along with the movement and glares at him. Waiting for him to say the things she doesn’t want to hear.

_It’s not your fault._

_You will get over it._

Just so she can snap at him. She likes being angry at him, it distracts her from the tears. She doesn‘t _want_ to get over it.

Mon-El kneels down in front of her and takes off her shoes and socks, before peeling her jeans off her legs. Tears well up again in Kara’s eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. Sorry for her urge to punish him for something he had nothing to do with. She shivers a bit when he gently places his forehead against hers and brushes her hair out of her face. Just for a second she allows it. When she tries to pull away he nudges her backwards into the tub and with a sigh she climbs in.

The water is hot as she slides in. It makes no difference to her. She’s Supergirl.

Eyeing Mon-El from the side, Kara pulls her knees up to her chest. “I don’t need this. I don’t get sick,” she points out. She closes her eyes and there’s _that picture, that sound_ again. Her hands fly up to her mouth to cover at as she gags and retches, her stomach trying to rebel. Then, she drops her hand down into the tub and she watches the way the light breaks against the water and skews the perception. “She was on her way to school. I think, I think she just started. I tried to fly her to the hospital, but it was too late. There was nothing they could do.” Her speech is erratic, interrupted by by ragged breaths and hiccups and even one nervous laugh.

For one brief moment she allows herself to lean against Mon-El, before jerking back, like his shirt is burning against her cheek. His hand ghosts against the nape of her neck, barely touching. He scoops water from the tub and runs it over the back, her naked breasts, her hair. It drips over her face and Kara sucks in a breath. It’s good. It obscures the tears that run down her cheeks.

Mon-El reaches for a sponge and starts to scrub down her back.

“You don’t have to do that,” she insists, but he doesn’t stop and she looks away.

The scene plays out over and over again behind Kara’s eyelids. Punching Barda. Falling debris. The air steeped with dust. Angry, impatient car horns far below. A woman’s panicked scream.

He wrings the sponge out over her head and pours shampoo in her hair. Deft fingers begin to massage her scalp, the created bubbles sliding down, over her shoulders, down her back. It feels …. right. Sufficient. He isn’t rough, but there also isn’t too much tenderness in it, no coddling. Like it’s about getting a job done. It’s good. It distracts her. For a moment, she relaxes. Lets the sounds come in. The slide of the droplets on her skin. The movement of water through the pipes. The rustle of clothes as he moves. Their heartbeats, hers and his, as well as the ones of everybody else in the building. Mrs. Harding in 11B really should get that operation she’s been putting off.

Mon-El reaches across for the shower head. The fingers against the back of her neck urge Kara to tilt her head back and so she does.

 _Better?_ His touch asks and she doesn’t reply. His hand slides down to her shoulder.

Mon-El grabs her and lifts her out of the tub, stands her up on the carpet. Her eyes are still closed. Suddenly there’s a towel around her, one of the fluffy ones. One of the first things she bought when she went to live on her own.

“Here, hold it.”

Her fingers wrap around the tips and hold them close to her chest. He rummages around in a basket, sucks in a breath when he finds what he’s looking for. His hand against her shoulder blade nudges her to the side and then there’s another, smaller towel against her hair, ruffling and scrubbing, almost pushing her off balance, till he’s satisfied with the result and decorates her head with what Kara guesses is the worlds worst attempt at a turban. She can feel it wanting to slide off.

However, Mon-El is not done yet. His arm slides in underneath hers, he picks her up, bridal style, and her eyes pop open against her will.

“You have to stop doing this,” she says as she wraps her arms around his neck for stability.

Mon-El just shrugs.

***

It’s not her bed that he carries her to, but the couch. He sits her down and kneels next to her feet.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says reflexively and reaches up to fix the towel on her head.

Mon-El nods quiety and grabs ahold of her foot, stroking up its graceful arch. His blue sweater is soaked through on the right side. It _reminds_ her, annoys her.

“Why don’t you go and change your shirt?”

“I’m good.”

They fall silent again.

No words between them. Just Mon-El's hand against her foot, holding, soothing, drawing circles without tickling. Everything floods over her again. Kara wishes she could punch away the silence and the darkness. “She had dark hair. She was small, so small.” Kara doesn’t mean to share, but the words, they don’t obey. Instead they tumble out of her, like legos spilling out of an upturned toybox. “I didn’t see her there. I didn’t, I wasn’t, I didn’t even try to look. I didn’t even think to. She was so small, so far below. There was a My Little Pony on her bagpack.”

“Was it Pinkie Pie?” Mon-El interjects suddenly.

Kara’s brow furrows. What does that have to do with anything? “No, Rainbow Dash.” A dark thought rises up in her mind. Maybe Jayla wanted to be brave and wild, too, just like Rainbow. What if she dreamed of flying too? What if… Kara’s heart sinks to the pit of her stomach. What if Jayla looked up to her? What if she was looking at her right when it …

Mon-El hands grip on tigher and she guesses it must be because her rising nausea is visible in her expression.

“Her name, her name was...” Kara can’t bring herself to say it. The only reason why she even knows it because Jayla’s parents were screaming it. The little body in her arms, it was small, so small. She remembers telling the doctors, _her name is Jayla_ , when she handed it over. She remembers that she knew that there was no heartbeat.

Her hands ball up in a futile expression of rage.

“I just wish, I wish I could … “

Her eyes fly open.

“Myxy!”


	2. Chapter 2

Kara stalks back and forth on one of the highest roofs in National City, her bright red cape flapping in the wind. Below her the lights of the city break through the nightly air.

“Myxy! Show yourself!”

Mon-El is casually leaning against the wall of the maintenance shack. She can feel his eyes boring into her back. Well, she couldn’t care less about whether she looks nuts, about whether this seems pointless.

“I know you are still watching!”

Myxy appears in a puff of swirling, blue transmatter. “I knew the day would come where you wouldn’t be able to resist me anymore, Kara Zor-El, alas I have to tell you…”

Behind her Mon-El readies himself and the imp pulls a face. “I can’t believe you are still with that troglodyte.”

Kara stretches out her right arm, just barely catching Mon-El in the chest before he can confront Myxy.

“Stop it, just stop! This isn’t about either of you.”

Determined she stomps towards the imp. “This is bigger than either of you. There’s a little girl who needs your help.”

“And why would I be helping her?”

Rage begins to burn in Kara’s eyes. “Because I say so! Her name is Jayla and she, she died when she shouldn’t have.”

The imp shrugs. “Sorry, love, you got the wrong number. This isn’t my area of expertise.”

“Who here said that they were all powerful?”

“Even I have my limits. I can’t bring anybody back that I didn’t kill myself. See you around, sweets.”

He’s gone before she can graze him with her heat vision.

Mon-El is by her side in a flash, his hand gripping her shoulder. Her eyes are still ablaze.

“Musicmeister is next.”

***

She looks like an idiot, standing in the middle of the roof, admitting to herself she doesn’t know how to reach Musicmeister. He told them he could feel their breaking hearts. Shouldn’t he feel her right now? Shouldn’t he have felt the hearts of the parents breaking?

Tears well up her eyes and she balls her first. Deep down, Kara knows there can only one way.

She knows in her heart that her voice is beautiful. She used to sing on Krypton. It always made her parents smile. The memory of their excited faces down in the audience at the great recital of the artist guilt still haunts her dreams sometimes. When it happens, she invariably wakes up with tears streaming down her face.

There’s a piercing purity to music. The ghost of a blissful, happy childhood. When there was a tune on her lips every hour of the day before she could even from a sentence. It’s still inside of her, buried, charred.

On earth, she can count the number of times she has sung on her hands. For birthdays sometimes (usually for Alex). Karaoke one time in college. The surprised faces all turned on her. Not because she was bad, but because she was good. They didn’t expect her to be good. Sometimes quietly as part of the choir in school. That one time, jumping up and down on her bed, with a brush in her hand because N’Sync’s new single had just come out and it was perfect. On the way home, in the back of Alex car, because she was drunk and then alone in the shower after Alex left.

When Musicmeister took her, it was a violation, Kara knows that. And yet … it was freeing too. Not just because he made her open her heart, give into her feelings. But also because she sang, had to sing, could sing.

Now she stands here, alone, shivering.

Which one can she possibly choose? The Kryptonian song of mourning? Amazing grace? She has listened to that many times before, wondering what it would be like to sing it. 

The cold air feels like toxic fumes inside her throat. She fights her tears with anger, because it’s hard to breathe when you are crying. Mon-El tenses up behind her in surprise when she starts. The song swells up inside of her, rising, breaking forth. Kara struggles with it, to contain and release it at the same time, to shape it into a single haunting plea as she battles the images that push up into her mind.

It might just be the hardest thing she’s ever done.

There is no answer.

***

She stands frozen, in shock. The air around her is empty with the lack of a response. No new sounds join the wind and traffic from the streets below.

Mon-El’s hand, her _boyfriend’s_ hand, feels soft, tentative against her back. “Let’s just go home, babe.”

She doesn’t move. She doesn’t want to move.

 _There’s nothing more you can do._ He doesn’t say it, but the words hang between like a cloud. _You are tired, exhausted._

 _What about all the others?_ That’s what he should say, but it’s not there, not even a trace of it. Kara reflexively closes her eyes and listens. Listens for the million of heartbeats. The blaring sirens. Angry words said in anger. Metal scratching darkly against metal. Flesh against flesh, in anger.

Her knees tremble. Finally, her shoulders slump.

She doesn’t think she’ll be able to fly by herself tonight.

“I’ll take you home.”

It feels like surrender, but she nods. This time, she really does feel cold, taking hold deep inside her bones. Kara fastens her arms around him and holds on to his back. They’ve never done this before, she realizes as he speeds them home. She’s not used to this, being that fast without it being under her own control. She never knew how disorienting it feels. Mon-El feels massive, strong, and she clings on tighter, almost stubborn as the world blurs around them. His muscles tense and then he’s leaping them up to her window.

She slides off his back, reluctant. “I don’t want to go to sleep.” It makes her cringes. Even she can hear how much she sounds like a petulant child. But she can’t help it.

“There’s so much I still have to do.” Her hands are cramping.

“They’ll hate me now.”

“Maybe they will,” he says softly. “There’ll always be those who hate you.” The tenderness in his words feels like thorn burrowing into her heart.

“This is different,” she insists. Of course she knows that there’ll always be people who hate her, but it’s always been villains. And mean, incorrigible people like Maxwell Lord. Not normal, nice people, who did nothing except take their daughter to school. The kind of people she protects. “They are good people.”

“It doesn’t matter what people think of you. You need to know in your heart that you were right, that you did your best.”

“I’ll go to the funeral.”

He sighs and pulls her close to his chest. “Just, be calm, okay?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she says, sounding more defeated than angry.

“If I had just lost my daughter,” he chooses his words carefully, “I wouldn’t be very interested in how Supergirl feels about it.”

Kara pulls out of his arms and backs away. “I have to go. I take credit for my victories. I have to take responsibility for my mistakes.”

“And you will.” His hand cups her cheek and she looks at him, really looks into his eyes, for maybe the first time since _it_ happened. “You go to bed, I’ll crash on the couch.”


	3. Chapter 3

She’s startled out of her sleep. It’s dark around. He’s not in bed with her. But he’s still _here_. When Kara closes her eyes. She can hear his breathing in the living room, and the soft crackling of electricity. He’s on the couch, the tv running without the sound on.

Kara emerges from the shadow, wearing only plain black panties and a white tank top, inexplicably drawn to him. He looks so peaceful, if it wasn‘t for that little frown on his forehead. He makes an unhappy sound when she shakes him and pulls him upwards on the couch. She’s so close to kissing him right then and there. She _should_ be telling him to just leave, call it a night, go back to the DEO, sleep there. That’s what she should do.

Instead she straddles him and buries her face in the hollow of his neck. Her fingers dance against his skin as she musters up the courage to say what she really wants to say, the thought rising up persistent and unwanted.

“I want you to be mean to me.”

Mon-El chuckles in response and grips her tighter. “I’m not gonna be mean to you, Kara.”

“Why not?” Kara pouts and rubs herself against his sweatshirt. “I’m mean to you all the time.” She gyrates her hips and nips on his neck. She rubs her nose against his throat, as if she could curl up and disappear right into him, if she tried only long enough. Against his skin, she whispers a secret, which she can only do because she knows, he’ll never tell a soul. “Please, hurt me, I want to hurt.”

“No.”

Kara freezes.

“What do you mean ‘no’?”

“You are still all messed up emotionally. You don’t know what you are asking for.”

Kara shoots up from the couch and angrily shoves his shoulders back into the couch.

“That’s not your call to make!”

“Of course it is! I’m in this, too.”

Red hot anger flares through her belly. For a second, she wants to incinerate him and the couch he sits on.

“Whose side are you on?”

“Yours, of course. That’s why I’m not doing it.”

“Well then maybe I have no use of you, if you won’t do what I tell you. Maybe I should be out there. Maybe I’ll walk right out that door to find somebody else. Somebody who is man enough to give me what I need!”

Mon-El calmly crosses his arms. “No, you won’t.”

“You bastard!” She hates that he is so calm about it. She hates that he _knows_. He is counting on her being too chicken, her moral instincts too developed that she would just throw herself at somebody else. Most of all she hates that he is completely right.

“How dare you! You don’t know what it’s like, you don’t know what it’s like to care. You only care about yourself!”

He jumps up, his eyes blazing with anger. “Nobody is perfect, Kara. Not even you.”

“I’m Supergirl. I should be!”.

“You know what? How about you grow the fuck up, Kara.”

“I hate you, you, you…,” she wants to say ‘Daxamite’, but even now she can’t quite bring herself to say it, not after how often they have fought over it, not after how far they’ve come.

“Get out. Get out of my home, I don’t want you here.” Those words sound awful, cruel and Kara’s gaze immediately flies towards his face. She doesn’t want to hurt him and it’s almost a relief that he’s still glaring at her filled with anger.

“Fuck you, Kara Zor-El, fuck you.”

Wordlessly she holds the door open and he stomps through it. All she wants is to slam it shut, if not for the knowledge that it would splinter in a dozen pieces if she did. As soon as the door is closed the tears are back again. Her legs nearly give way and she stumbles over to her couch.

It feels right when she collapses onto it, alone. Ugly, painful sobs wreck her body. This is _her_ burden, her darkness where nobody else can follow. Not Alex, not Clark, nobody. Hers and hers alone.

***

 

The point comes where she can’t cry anymore and the world around her slowly shifts back into focus. Kara’s ribcage aches from the last, dry sobs. Her arms are cramping from not tearing the couch apart with her bare hands just from holding on too strong. Then, the memory comes flooding back. Her hand flies up to her mouth.

Kara’s up in the blink of an eye, panic fueled adrenaline pumping through her body.

_Mon-El._

She rips the door to her apartment open and stares at what she finds there.

_It’s him._

_He’s here._

_He’s still here._

Sitting on the floor, with his back against the wall, just looking up from the floor, up to her, bleary eyed and blinking.

With a dash, she’s by his side.

“I’m so sorry, you waited for me, oh my god, I’m so sorry” the words tumble out of her mouth, all jumbled and messy, and Kara is pretty sure that tears would do likewise if she wasn’t already so cried out. She clings to him, her hands curled into his sweater, hoping to hold him, when she knows he should be leaving. “I… I didn’t mean to, I just wanted, I’m so sorry.”

Kara flinches, startled, when she feels his calming hand against her side. “Calm down, it’s not a big deal,” he mumbles sleepily.

“What?”

“I get it.” He stretches and rubs the back of his neck. “S’okay. Don’t worry. All is forgiven.”

“Really?” Kara looks up at him in surprise. “Feels kind of unforgivable,” she whispers, almost more to herself. Her voice feels so small.

  
“Nothing is unforgivable.”

Kara’s eyes widen. They way he said it. Not as if to argue or make a point. Just simple, matter of fact. Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. It dawns on her and she draws her knees closer, hugging them.

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

He gets up and extends his hand to her, offering to pull her up.

“Well, I have to. Besides,” he yawns, “I forgot my shoes inside.”


	4. Chapter 4

He leads her back into the apartment, their hands interlinked. She pauses at the threshold and he turns to look back at her. He gives her hand a little tug, and, not without hesitation she follows the little nudge.

“Sometimes I don’t understand you,” _or myself for that matter_ , she thinks.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t there,” he offers. “I don’t know what it’s like. All I know is that the one love is hurting.” His grip on her hand tightens. “I didn’t know her. I can’t help her. I can only try to help you.”

 _I_ _don’t_ _need_ _help,_ Kara insides protest, but she’s tired, so tired. She doesn’t want to argue anymore, about how it isn’t fair that everybody loves her, cares for her well being and her sanity when she knows Jayla’s parents are out there somewhere and there’s nothing she can do for them. Or Jayla.

She can hear the defeat in her own voice. “I wasn’t good enough. I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t pay enough attention.”

Mon-El pulls her closer, but stops just short of a hug.

“I didn’t know her, but maybe one day you can ask her yourself.” She looks at him, his eyes soft and clear. _The universe seems different once you are in Rao’s light._ Isn’t that what she’s been taught? Is that really what she believes? She isn’t so sure anymore.

“Do you, you think I’ll just get over it?”

Mon-El pauses. Kara’s heart beats faster. She isn’t sure what she wants to hear from him and what she doesn’t.

“I know you and I think … I think she’ll stay with you.” He looks away, to the side, like he’s trying to think of the right word. “Like a scar. The wound, it closes, it fades. Maybe you forget it’s there for a while. But it’s still there.”

Mon-El looks at her, like he wants to make sure she understand. Kara isn’t sure she does, but she likes his calmness and that it doesn’t sound like happiness.

***

Her eyelids feel heavy when she opens them. Her limbs weigh her down as she rises out of bed and drags herself to the bathroom. Well, at least she made it through the night. Bile rises in Kara’s throat as she reaches for her toothbrush. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

_She’ll stay with you. Like a scar._

The words echo through her mind.

The reflection in front her shows no scar. Just her face. No trace of what happened. No signal to tell the world that she has failed. Her anger wants to break the mirror, smash it, wants at least her reflection to be torn.

Instead, she straightens her back.

A new day.

Today she’ll do more. Today she’ll find out where the funeral is. She knows that Mon-El disapproves. He hasn’t offered to come with her.

Her cheeks tense up in determination. She begins to rummage through her clothes and it dawns on her that she’s not prepared for his. In a way it’s strange that she isn’t, that she’s never had to do this before. She has no second super suit, no black cape to mark the gravity of the occasion. Maybe a black armband to show what she’s feeling?

It doesn’t matter.

It’s shallow to even think about these things.

***

The congregation is small. A tiny flock of people, huddled together around the grave, as if they were protecting each other from the harsh winds. Kara watches them from the line of trees. She listens to the last words of the sermon. They keep it short. Stonefaced, they don’t want even more breakdowns.

She can’t help but flinch every time another scoop of dirt hits the casket, interlaced with the soft murmurs of hushed condolences.

Kara sucks in her cheeks and walks forward, her cape flows behind her, her step is soft with the mossy grass beneath her feet. She can hear them freeze. Her cheeks are burning, tears moisten her eyes, as she takes up the trowel to be the last to push it into the pile of earth laced with flowers and pour it down into the grave.

The casket is small, much to small, smaller than it ever should be and all she wants to do is scream and burst into tears. But she can’t. She’s Kryptonian. She’s Supergirl.

Maybe Mon-El was right. Maybe she was wrong to come here.

Jayla’s parents stare at her in shock. The woman sways, her nails digging into her husband’s arm.

Supergirl nods at them.

“I’m, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

She takes her leave.


	5. Chapter 5

Her glasses are in place. There is no hesitation when she strides out of the elevator and into the office. She’s Kara Danvers now. Kara Danvers who didn’t just get a little girl killed, who shouldn’t be feeling this deeply about this. At least not more than any person with a heart would be. It has nothing to do with her. Nothing to do with Kara Danvers. The world of Kara Danvers is alright, for the most part.

The office and her desk greet her. Familiarity. Purpose.

She barely has the chance to close the door and slump down on her chair when her phone rings.

“Alex, it’s okay. I’m alright. I was home. Mon-El was there. Yes, I got all your messages. No, I haven’t talked to Clark yet. I will, I promise.”

Kara lowers her voice.

“Look, I’m at work. I’ll see you later. Yes, scout’s honor.”

The white background of her laptop screen is mocking her. A short piece on the casualties that get lost in the shuffle flows easily from her fingers. It feels shit and trite.

Kara deletes it.

Maybe she should have gone as Kara Danvers. Maybe that way she could have done more. She could have talked to the Washingtons. She could have asked whether they would be okay with her writing a story about Kayla. No. It was Supergirl’s job. Her responsibility.

Her fingers drum listlessly across the keyboard, forming nonsense words. She wants to write about the funeral. About this one girl. But how to do it without seeming … off? It the story, the one thing weighing on her, controlling all her thoughts. Would the parents even want that?

Kara tries to picture it. What if it was Alex? She can’t picture it. Alex is a warrior, an agent. She chose a life of risk. Jayla didn’t choose anything. What if it was James? Or Winn?

She sighs and writes a fluff piece on the wedding of some tycoons of business and sends it off.

***

“We are not going to sue, if that’s what you are here for.”

“I’m not,” she says and steps forward.

The man doesn’t turn around. Kara has been watching him. He came down the stairs 5 minutes ago, with a cardboard box under his arm.

“Then why are you here?”

Kara wants to tell him about the lights and how much it hurts that one, one that might have shone so brightly one day, went out on her watch, but she fears he wouldn’t understand.

“Fucking city,” Mr. Washington curses. His hands tremble as he reaches for the matches.

She wonders if must be hard to still live in the same place, with all those memories. They don’t look like the kind of people who find it easy to just move. Kara’s read the obituary, it mentioned the family has lived in National City for three generations. She wishes she could explain to him that they aren’t alone.

“I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything you can do...”

The man’s back straightens.

“I used to tell her not to look up when you fly by,” he says. “That there were more important things in life to look up to. Real things. Achievable things. Not some dainty little princess playing god. Gave her a picture of congress woman Waters. Told her that that was somebody to look up to. Somebody real. Somebody like her. Somebody she could be like one day.”

Kara winces at the _rrrrrip_ _ing_ sound as he tears pages out of a photo album and throws them into the trash. His hands are trembling.

“I think you should leave now.”

***

Then there is Clark. She meets him on the top of a mountain cliff. They sit on the edge, their feet dangling, eyes turned to the horizon. He says many smart and friend style things, but Kara finds it hard to focus, as brilliant reds and oranges infuse the sky following the sinking sun.

 _Does is ever get easier?_ She wants to ask.

Then she realizes that she doesn’t want to know the answer. Clark is Clark. He’s not her. She doesn’t care how he makes it work for himself.

She doesn’t want to learn to cope. She wants to preserve this, to keep this pain enshrined in her heart.

She wants to grieve this brilliant, little light, that was stolen away by darkness right under her watch, forever.

So it can remind her to never let this happen again.


	6. Chapter 6

There is one more thing she needs to do. One more person to talk to. Her cheeks are flush with shame as she sneaks into her apartment.

Mon-El is on the couch. Looking pensively at the ceiling, open book resting on his chest. He puts it to the side and sits up when notices her arrival.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“Hi.”

The color in her cheeks intensifies and she looks down at her own feet.

They sit side by side, quietly, their hands almost touching.

“Maybe you should take off for a while,” she suggests softly. “I’m probably not gonna be much of a girlfriend in the near future.”

Mon-El remains silent for a bit, like he is thinking about it. Then he shakes his head. “I’m not leaving. You and I, we are a team.”

The words feel like a sucker punch to the stomach. _Team_. It feels bigger, more unbreakable even than love. She remembers how it used to be. How important it was to him to be her partner - _whether we are together or not_. It makes sense that this is what matters to him, above all.

“Guess that means, you got my back?”

A soft smile lights up his face.

“Always, Supergirl.”

Kara doesn’t quite manage to stop herself from smiling back at him. It’s just so rare that he calls her that, especially not when it’s just the two of them. Her fingers dart up to her lips. Smiling feels so unfamiliar to her these days. She feels herself growing somber again.

“I’m sorry. I lashed out at you, when I was really angry at myself. That… that wasn’t right.”

Mon-El shruggs and extends his hand, to invite her down next to him “I can take it.”

Kara frowns and reaches up to gingerly touch his face. “Maybe you shouldn’t have to. I’ll try to be a better girlfriend from now on.”

“Well,” he says and pulls her close, till she’s nestled against his shoulder, his slate gray eyes never breaking contact. “Maybe we can both work on becoming better people, together.”

She runs her hands all over his face, hoping that he understands that it’s the only thing she feels capable of right now. For one blink of an eye, Kara allows herself to sink into the moment, before the guilt comes back.

“I really should be out there,” she murmurs.

“I guess that means for the next few weeks you’ll work yourself to the bone and jump feet first into every ridiculous risk?”

Kara bites her lips and looks up at him with big, innocent eyes. “Probably?”

“I better go with you then,” he says and reaches for his jacket.

***

 

They are out there on another roof. They haven’t contacted the DEO. Kara knows full well that Alex would disapprove, if she knew that Kara was out and about again. Without the benefit of Winn analyzing the police chatter, Kara listens. She knows it’s just her brain examining every shred of information, every wavelength, but it still feels almost like it’s herself floating through the streets, dipping into every apartment, hunting for each and every scream, every gurgle and every gasp.

Her cheeks flush a bit when she remembers the stern speech Maggie gave her on the right of privacy and usability in court. The city seems quiet for now, as peaceful as a city of this size can be. For a moment, she pulls out of that other space in her head, back to the reality right in front of her.

Mon-El stands on the edge, leaning over the railing, surveying the streets below. Kara isn’t sure what to tell him, whether to advise him that they should call it a night. He’s too quiet, compared to what she’s used to. Normally, he gets bored during long stakeouts, leaps back and forth between buildings, for practice and entertainment.

“Do you believe?” Mon-El suddenly says pensively.

Kara frowns, unsure. “What do you mean?”

“That she’s out there, in a better place.” Mon-El smiles wryly to himself. “Bathed in Rao’s light.”

She steps closer.

“I used to not believe anything,” he continues without turning around. “Or more like, I didn’t know what I believed. Even when I escaped, when I thought I might be he only one … It felt like a cruel joke of fate. That even with two worlds ending, of course it would be some spoiled prince who would fall on his feet.”

He turns to her. “Now it’s like I see Rao’s light shining from your eyes, every time I look at you.” He reaches for her hand. “You made me believe that I was saved for a reason, no matter what I had done, what I had been before.”

“Thank you,“ Kara blurts and squeezes his hand.

“What for?”

“For being here with me. For sharing my darkness.” She’s starting to babble and she knows it. “I know I’m overreacting. I know. But I want to. I need to. I don’t want this to be real, I don’t want this to be normal. I have to, I have to keep fighting it. I have to make sure it never happens again.”

“I understand,” he says and his thumb along her cheek, softly.

There’s sadness in his voice and in his eyes. It takes a while to sink in that he wasn’t there with her, the day it happened. It wasn’t a big deal, it had never been the plan. It was his day off because he had an appointment with the alien registry office, they had never given him the call.

“Do you feel… guilty, too?” Kara asks shyly, eyes downcast.

“Of course,” he says. His hand slides out of grasp, as he turns his eyes back to the streets. “But you can’t change the past. You can only try harder in the future.“

Kara bites her lip. “It’s not your fault, you know. I wasn’t angry at you, because of that. I was just angry at myself.”

Mon-El shrugs. “I know.” Simple. Clear.

Kara steps up and touches her back of his neck, goes higher, runs her hand through his hair, feeling its softness against her palm.

“We are so different, you an I”, she remarks.

“Bad different?” There is uncertainty in his voice, even after all they’ve been through together.

“No,” she shakes her head decisively and rests her forehead against shoulder while her arms wrap around his chest from behind. “Good different. The best kind.”

***

_Do you believe?_

The words stick, refuse to leave. Kara pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around herself. On the floor, a ray of sunshine, falling through the curtains paints a large rectangle on the floor. Almost like a door, if one could just step forward and open it.

Does she, does she believe? She lets the question run through her mind. It’s complicated.

Raoism doesn’t really _work_ the way most human religions do, at least not the ones she has encountered. Rao … doesn’t care if anybody believes in him. Rao just is. His deeds echo through history, as real as the Clone Wars or the time of the Green Plague.

To her people, Rao was more of an ideal, showing a more perfect way to live. There’s ritual, yes, gratitude too.

She rubs her temples. As a child, she had a child’s faith. She didn’t really think of other planets, other alien races. Doctrines, schisms, they meant nothing to her. She studied some of the history from the recordings Clark had in the fortress. However, not only did it seem that Zor-El and Jor-El didn’t have the highest of the opinion of the religious guild, which reflected in the breath of material they had sent along, the faceless guild liked to shroud itself in mysticism.

From the data it’s clear that there were religious debates. She came across a long tract debating whether Daxamites could even be part of Rao’s light, the opposite sides of the argument neatly split on whether they were too far away, too genetically “degenerate” or whether they were only probably rarely spiritually enlightened enough. There were also debates whether Rao had visited other planets, other races.

All of this means nothing to her heart. To her, it’s still the faith her parents taught her as a child. A faith of light and wisdom. Not something she likes to think about. After all, what about Eliza? What about Alex? Is their god real, too? Will they be with him instead? Is Rao just for her people? What if everybody did end up in Rao’s light, would humans be disappointed because it’s not what they expect?

The light dances across the floorboards. It reminds her of when she came to earth, how much it scared her that the sun, the light, it wasn’t red anymore. She has grown used to it and to her Rao is all suns now. When was the last time she prayed? It always made her feel out of place, like she wasn’t weird enough already. Sometimes, when she’s scared, she prays in her heart.

Kara’s naked feet slide over the floor as she shimmies off the couch. She kneels down inside the light, palms and wrists turned towards the sun. Payer also doesn’t really work the same way, it makes no sense to her to ask Rao for help. Prayer is more like … meditation. A cleansing of one’s thoughts, with the hope to understand to gain insight in oneself, to be inspired by the wisdom and example of Rao.

“Can I join?”

Startled she looks up. Oh right. Sometimes she forgets how closely interlaced their planets were. She isn’t really used to having somebody to share this with.

Not hearing any protest, he slides down on the floor and kneels next to her. How can this, all of this, be so easy to him? Kara lets her eyes fall shut and enjoys the feel of earth’s sun against her skin.

“So, all done now!”

Mon-El reaches for the back of his head, pulls out a hair and a second one. With enthusiasm he throws them down the sink and washes them down the drain with water.

“Back on Daxam,” he explains, “we do that a lot, sacrifice our hair. Seemed more practical than killing off prisoners.”

“You what!?”

“Relax,” he smiles. “I was just joking. I would have asked you to laser away a bit more, but it doesn’t count unless you cut it yourself.”

Oh right, Daxam.


	7. Chapter 7

Kara rises up from her bed and follows the smell from the kitchen like in a trance. She finds him there, juggling and assortment of pans and kitchen utensils, at least some of which she‘s pretty sure she hasn‘t owned before.

There’s 6 long parallel lines of little … _thinglets_. Tiny squares with chocolate, fruit, candy, formed, dripped, arranged…

“They look adorable,“ she blurts out.

“Thanks,” Mon-El replies, absentmindedly scratching the back of his neck. “I spent all night.”

Kara looks at them apprehensively. They look like the fluffiest, happiest, most cheerful objects in the world, poured into food form. Her hands grab the edge of the counter sternly.

“I can’t eat that.”

“Oh,” he says and then nods lightly. “Right.” He grabs one that she thinks is vanilla with little sprinkles on it and casually pops it into his mouth, before reaching for the coffee pot and bringing it to his lips. She hates him, just a tiny little bit for that.

“I can wrap some of them up and deep freeze them for you.”

He circles around the table, dropping one more pan into the already overflowing sink. Reaching for the scrubber. A frown forms on his forehead as he ponders how to tease sticky caramel out of all the nooks and crannies and she can’t help but stare in fascination.

“I don’t understand you.”

“What do you mean?”

 _Why you love me_ _so much_ _._ “How you can be so calm. Why it’s so easy for you to be okay with things? Why it is so easy for you to forgive me?”

Mon-El shrugs absentmindedly, still eyeing the pan in front of him like it’s a puzzle he has to figure out.

“You changed my life. I never expected my life to go like this. But you came in like a rampaging solar storm and turned everything upside down.” He turns to her and frowns. “Why are you laughing?”

“Oh, nothing,” Kara says, leaning against his shoulder and trying to cover her mouth with one hand to hide her smile. “It’s just I’d probably describe you exactly the same way.”

Their eyes find each other for one long, breathless moment.

“You know what’s the worst thing about you?” Kara says, blinking rapidly against the tears beginning to prick in her eyes.

“No,” Mon-El replies softly and reaches for her hand. “But I bet you’ll tell me right away.”

A lump forms in Kara’s throat and she’s forced to look down. “You always make me smile, even when I don’t want to.” She looks up again, searching Mon-El’s eyes, seeing the confusion in them as he thinks about her words.

“I’m sorry?” he says hesitantly, squeezing her hand more tightly.

She throws her arms around him and squeezes tight, burying her face in his chest. “Don’t be, please, never be sorry about that.”

A second’s pause, Mon-El’s arms wrap around her, enveloping her. Kara leans into the embrace and for the first time she thinks she can truly let it happen again.

“Here’s me,” she whispers against the collar of his shirt. “Somebody else loses their child and I’m making it all about myself again.”

“But it’s about you, too. You hate losing people. Whether it is the people you love, or the ones you don’t even know.”

Kara can’t quite suppress another sniffle. “I, I don’t know what to do, what the right thing to do is.”

Without looking up, she can sense him hesitate. “Just… let it happen. All of this, it’s just you. Nobody can fix the entire world, not even you. Sometimes there is no right thing to do.”

“I just hate that I know there are people out there suffering and there’s nothing I can do.”

“I know.” He grips her tighter. “That’s why you keep on fighting. That’s why every day I fight to try to be more like you.”

***

She takes the pralines to Jayla’s grave. Leaves them there, between the flowers and the pictures, the letters and the lights. It feels … futile. Maybe the next time she come by they will be torn, crumpled. Beaten up by the weather.

More likely torn up by rats.

Why do it then? Does she really think Jayla would like it? Or that her parents will? A fruitless sacrifice to a higher power.

All she knows is that she can’t go and take it back.

***

 

The next time she stops by the package is gone. Stuffed into the nearby trashcan together with many of the other gifts, wilted flowers, photographs, letters. And still, Kara can’t help herself. So she brings another.

She brings them long after most others have stopped visiting and she wonders if that means that they _know_. That she’s the only one who would keep coming after such a long time.

At least one of Jayla’s parents still visits all the time, the grave is always clean. Kara starts finding the package in a different trashcan, the one to where the groundskeeper has his shack. It makes her feel both embarrassed and relieved. And like the Washingtons are good people if they think to give the sweets to somebody else even when they are unwilling to take them themselves.

One day, Kara can’t find them. Even an x-ray sweep of the whole area reveals no trace. Maybe Mrs. Washington had a visitor. Maybe it’s a coincidence.

When it’s the same the next time she comes by, it starts feeling like a message.


	8. Epilogue

“You know, I can see you there.”

Kara emerges from the shadows, hovering just outside the window of the old building.

“Mrs. Washington.”

“Supergirl.”

The woman looks at her. The shadow of apprehension moves across her face, like she regrets that she acknowledged Kara’s presence. The seconds pass by.

“You can come in.”

The appartment is small and overtaken by a lovable chaos. A place that feels lived in. Browns and yellows dominate the color scheme. The heart of the room is a table, covered by a table cloth that feels old and cherished. Kara’s cheeks are burning as she sits down.

Mrs. Washington turns around. No words are exchanged as she fills up the kettle for some tea.

 _I still think of her, every day when I look at my face in the mirror. I wouldn’t be where I am today without her. She changed my life even though I never got to know her._ The words burn on Kara’s lips, but she remains silent. Only the whirring of the old air conditioning fill the air. In the distance a siren blares.

Kara jolts when Mrs. Washington slaps down the teapot next to the box of home made pralines. Each moment feels like an eternity as Jayla’s mother fills both their cups. The woman’s hands wrap around the cup and she just stares at the alien in front of her. More seconds tick by and the expression of her face slowly softens.

“You know, we went on a cruise after Jayla died. We couldn’t really afford it, but we didn’t care. When we came back Jayla’s teacher took me aside and asked me how we could do that. Can you believe that? What a bitch!”

Lost in that memory, Jayla’s mother grabs a praline and pops it into her mouth. Suddenly, her eyes widen.

“These are really good.”

Kara blushes. “My husband makes then. I …. I’m not a very good cook. You wouldn’t … want to eat anything I make.”

They fall silent. There’s faint sounds coming from their neighboring apartment, and the noise of cars from the streets down below. Kara fidgets. Maybe it is time to address the baby bump shaped elephant in the room. She knows the papers and the entertainment shows have been talking about it.

“This is my first child. I thought, I thought about calling her Jayla, but it felt wrong somehow. Like I was stealing her name.”

Mrs. Washington nods approvingly and reaches for another praline.

“We thought about moving out of the city. Just while the baby is small. Not because of the city, you know. Only for her to be old enough to understand her powers.” Instinctively Kara’s hand smooths over her belly. The baby already so much part of her life, she always feels like she is talking behind her back. “On Rao’s grace, everything will go well.”

Mrs. Washington raises an eyebrow at her. “What’s a Rao?”

“Oh, ummm.” Great. Just another way she has put her foot in her mouth. Now the woman will think that she’s hear to brag about her alien baby. “It’s, it’s just what we believe in, where my husband and I come from.”

Again, there is nothing more to say. The woman’s fingers drum lightly against the table cloth, sometimes stretching forward. Maybe unable to decide on which one of Mon-El’s treats to pick next. Finally she settles on one with peanuts on top.

“Jayla has a brother you know.”

“I know,” Kara says, blushing again. “He should be starting school now, isn’t he?”

“He was too young to really understand what happened, but he’s a good kid. What can you do, except keep on pulling through.”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

 _Thank you for not hating me_ , is what Kara _wants_ to say, but even she realizes how fucking selfish that sounds. “Thank you for being such great parents to your son.”

“I don’t need any thanks for that.”

“Yes, of course, I’m sorry.”

What Kara _wants_ to say is that they are the real heroes. The ones who pick up the pieces when she has failed. That she might be able to keep a plane from crashing or beat back a meteorite, but she is not the one who can mend people’s hearts and keep them from falling apart. They are the ones who get up in the morning every day and do the real hard job.

However, sitting here, face to face with Jayla’s mom, the thought seems trite and banal, and so Kara bites her lips and looks down into the half empty mug of tea in her hands. Her eyes dart around the room, trying to think of something to talk about.

“You have done an amazing job with those flowers on the window sill.”

Jayla’s mom sucks in a deep breath. Her hands grip the edge of the table, knuckles straining and Kara wants to kick herself. She should have known that the flowers must have something to do with Jayla.

Mrs. Washington looks at her wide eyed and her voice is terse. “I have to pick up Desmond from school. You better go now.”

“Yes, of course.” Kara gets up, smoothing out none existing wrinkles in her cape, before letting her host walk her to the window.

“Hey Supergirl.”

“Yes.”

Kara looks down, hovering. Below her Mrs. Washington wraps her knitted cardigan more tightly as she looks up. “Have… have a nice life.” She sounds hesitant, even apprehensive. Like she isn’t sure herself whether she really means it.

But it’s the sentiment that counts and Kara’s is gonna take what she can get. And so she nods.

“Thank you,” she says one last time, before pushing upwards into the autumn sky.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this after I had written a lot of Mon-El angst, I thought I should write some Kara angst for a change. That was before I knew Kara angst was gonna be so heavy in season 3! It was also born out of the wish to see a bit more of karamel as an established couple supporting each other and dealing with superhero problems. Warning: English is not my first language and sadly I don't have a beta reader. This is also my first experiment with present tense.


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